“Well, there you are then,” Trenton exclaimed triumphantly. “If one of America’s most notable thinkers says it is so, then it surely must be.”
“Yes,” Townsend admitted. “Although I would like to point out that it was the lovely Lady Steepleton who won your case.” He smiled wryly at Mary, who in turn was feeling quite pleased with herself.
“Now that that has been settled,” Lord Moorland said, turning to Trenton, “Your wife requested that you escort Lady Steepleton back to your house; it seems she had to have a little discussion with Ryan.”
Trenton raised an eyebrow. “I see. I hope it doesn’t involve a duel.”
“One never can be sure,” Lord Moorland noted. “That woman is as feisty as they come, but then again, I am the one who raised her.”
Townsend looked just about ready to choke on his Champagne at that exchange of dialogue, while Mary felt quite shaken at the prospect of Alexandra and Mr. Summersby drawing swords against one another. “You cannot be serious,” she muttered.
“Lady Steepleton, I am always quite serious,” Lord Moorland remarked with a devilish grin. “In fact, I have always prided myself on my grave demeanor.”
Mary’s face relaxed into a warm smile. “Well, in that case, I shall simply have to take your word for it, my lord,” she told him with an edge of sarcasm.
“Yes,” Lord Moorland chuckled. “Do that, Lady Steepleton, and you and I will get along just fine.”
Later that evening, in a house not far from Berkeley Square, six gentlemen convened to discuss the matter of Lady Steepleton and her father’s missing journals. The Raven regarded his guests with an intense stare as he took a seat in his favorite leather armchair. “Well, gentlemen,” he announced, “it does appear as though we have a slight problem on our hands.” A soft murmur made its way around the room. “We have but one of Lord Steepleton’s journals in our possession, and the bloody thing is as good as useless. I demand an explanation.”
“Apparently, our agent was caught off guard by Lady Steepleton herself. As it is, we were fortunate to recover as much as we did,” one man remarked.
“And from what we have been able to gather, the marchioness is not in possession of the rest, my lord,” another commented.
“She is lying,” the Raven grumbled as he took a sip of his brandy.
“Then how do you suggest we proceed?” the Messenger asked as he leaned forward in his seat.
The Raven turned to him with a smirk. “Now, there is a question for us to consider.” He looked at the other gentlemen who were gathered around him. “I have an idea, but it may require a great deal of patience.”
“That may be a luxury we do not have,” a third man said.
“Perhaps, but at least we know that her ladyship has no idea of what she is looking for. That ought to give us a bit of extra time.”
“But now that she is engaged to Mr. Summersby,” the second put in, “she will soon be under the protection of that entire family. They will not make our task any easier.”
“Which is why we must act soon,” the Raven told him as he drummed his fingers against his armrest. “However, that is not to say that we ought to be rash about it. The right moment will present itself. Of that, I am quite certain.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Where the devil do you think you’re going?”
Mary turned to find Mr. Summersby staring down at her with stormy eyes. After Lord Trenton had seen her back to his and Alexandra’s home in Berkeley Square, she’d waited for him to head back out again before slipping out the front door and running as fast as her feet would carry her back to her own home on Brook Street. She’d stayed for only as long as it had taken her to get out of her evening gown and into her shirt and breeches. Then she’d given her apologies to Emma and Thornton, who’d both looked quite alarmed by their mistress’ sudden antics.
“Spying on me again, are we?” she asked in a mocking tone. Her eyes were hard as steel.
“Not that I enjoy it much,” he told her coolly. “But apparently it is necessary for me to keep a vigilant eye on you. You clearly have very little common sense in that stubborn head of yours.” Reaching out, he grabbed her arm.
“Unhand me, you fiend,” Mary snapped, matching his anger. She had a job to attend to, and nothing, not even Mr. Summersby’s ill temper, was going to stand in her way.
“Not until you answer my question,” he said sternly. “And while you are at it, you may as well tell me why you are dressed like that.”
“I have no time for this, Ryan,” Mary said irritably, letting his Christian name slip as she struggled to get her arm free from his grip. “And I certainly don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Oh, I believe you owe me a very good explanation, my dear. You are now my fiancée, whether you like it or not. I will not have you running about London dressing like a man and prescribing any number of harmful remedies for only God knows what. It is no longer your name alone that you are dishonoring, but mine as well.”
“And whose recklessness was it that landed us in this mess to begin with? I told you I did not wish to marry you when you asked me, yet you still have the audacity to complain about the situation that you are suddenly in after recklessly kissing me before the entire ton. If anyone ought to complain, it should be me. You, on the other hand, only have yourself to blame.”
Ryan pierced her with his bright blue eyes. Heaven help her if her legs weren’t turning to jelly no matter how angry she was. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “What would you have me do, Mary?” he asked as he held her gaze.
“End the betrothal,” she told him sharply.
A shadow flickered across his eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat. “I cannot do that. Not now that it has been publically announced.”
“That is regrettable,” she told him rather coolly. But it was her wounded pride and anger that were doing all the talking. Her heart wasn’t nearly as convinced of what she was saying. “It appears as though we find ourselves in quite an awkward situation.”
“It certainly does,” he muttered.
There was a look of defeat in his eyes that Mary had never seen before. It pained her to know how much she’d disappointed him. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d claimed to be something else. After all, she’d wanted to tell him, planned it even, but somehow she hadn’t quite managed it before it was too late.
Too late.
Too late for what, exactly? For them to live happily ever after? It was folly to even consider such an outcome. Of course, they were attracted to one another physically, but a lifelong affection would require so much more. It would require love—the very thing that was built on trust—not exactly something that the two of them had in high commodity.
Mary almost laughed at the very idea of it all. There she was, with a man she barely knew and who barely knew her, and the foolish fellow kept insisting that they get married! Well, if such a union was to have any chance in hell of being an amicable one, then perhaps it was time for her to start being completely honest.
She gave a lengthy sigh. “I have an appointment that I must keep. But if you have a genuine interest in discovering what it is that I am up to, then you are certainly welcome to come along.”
Ryan looked as though she were telling him to jump off a cliff. “You will not tell me what this is about before we get there, will you?”
She shook her head. “No, it is best if you see it for yourself.”
“In that case,” he told her. “I will join you.”
“Summersby,” Lord Arlington remarked as Ryan and Mary stepped through the front door of Arlington House. “This certainly is quite a surprise.”
“Trust me, Arlington, I am just as surprised to be here as you apparently are to have me.” He cast a frown at Mary. “I only hope to shed some light on what her ladyship has been up to.”
It was Lord Arlington’s turn to look surprised.
“Mr. Summersby has taken it upon himself to make me his fiancée,” Mary explained. “It seems that he now has a misplaced notion of ownership, which he is quite keen on exercising.”
“I am not entirely sure if I ought to congratulate you or. . .Well, I hope that the two of you will be very happy with one another,” Lord Arlington told them. “Lady Steepleton,” he then continued, “on a more serious note, won’t it be somewhat inappropriate for Summersby to attend?”
“I see your point, my lord. However, Mr. Summersby has studied medicine at Oxford for a year now and shall be accompanying us as my assistant. I therefore see no reason why he may not join us, unless you or your wife is uncomfortable with it, of course, in which case we shall naturally respect your wishes.”
Lord Arlington regarded Ryan, who looked positively stunned by Mary’s tactical maneuvering. He must have decided that there couldn’t be much harm in Ryan’s seeing his wife’s abdomen as long as his interest was of a medical nature alone. Either that, or he had no desire for further discussion and simply wanted to get on with the matter, for he finally said, “This way, if you will,” as he directed Mary and Ryan toward the stairs.
Once they reached the top of the landing, Mary paused at the door to Lady Arlington’s bedroom. “You will tell nobody about what you experience after stepping into this room,” she said, her eyes pinned on Ryan’s. “Do I make myself clear?”
He nodded, his curiosity shining bright in his eyes.
She eyed him skeptically. “You will also refrain from saying something that might alarm the patient.”
Once again, Ryan nodded.
“Very well then, Lord Arlington, you may show us in,” Mary said.
Lord Arlington, who appeared to be far calmer than when Mary had last seen him, opened the door to his wife’s bedroom and ushered Mary and Ryan inside. The lighting was dim, but they could clearly make out Lady Arlington, who’d been comfortably propped up against a large pile of pillows on her bed. She looked up from the book she was reading as soon as she heard them enter.
“How are you feeling this evening, my lady?” Mary asked as she approached the wide bed.
Lady Arlington closed the book she was holding, one that Ryan instantly recognized as Gulliver’s Travels. “That is quite an adventure story you have there, my lady.”
Lady Arlington smiled. “What a pleasant surprise to have you visit, Mr. Summersby.” She then looked at him conspiratorially. “I think my husband would prefer it if I read something more serious. In fact, I do believe he suggested Homer’s Iliad as the greatest work of fiction ever written.”
“It may well be,” Ryan agreed. “Though I must admit that it might take a trifle longer for you to get through.”
“It’s a poem,” Lady Arlington mouthed as if her husband weren’t standing right there in front of her.
“All I wanted was to introduce a bit of culture into your life, my dear,” Lord Arlington remarked, as if he’d taken huge offense to her heartless dismissal of his favorite literary work.